Themes and Variations/The Little Rift
THE LITTLE RIFT.
We sat together on the old stone pier
Talking of songs, and books that we had read;
And then we quarrelled; how, I hardly know—
What have I done to make this bright day dim?
Talking of songs, and books that we had read;
And then we quarrelled; how, I hardly know—
What have I done to make this bright day dim?
We looked upon the dreaming summer-land
That rose above our harbour’s azure bow.
A band of billowing woodland, dark and low,
Flowed to the east; and over it the cloud,
Broad and thick-folded, closed above the land,
Close as the hazel-husk enfolds the nut,
A far-off shaft of sunshine, striking fire,
Showed distant fields we never saw before—
That belt of stubble field—that flashing pane,
How near they seemed in the strange sunset gleam!
That rose above our harbour’s azure bow.
A band of billowing woodland, dark and low,
Flowed to the east; and over it the cloud,
Broad and thick-folded, closed above the land,
Close as the hazel-husk enfolds the nut,
A far-off shaft of sunshine, striking fire,
Showed distant fields we never saw before—
That belt of stubble field—that flashing pane,
How near they seemed in the strange sunset gleam!
We talked of old-world memoirs, in whose wit
We drink the sealed-up sunshine of the age;
Of travellers’ tales whose wild adventure stirs
The salt sea-faring spark within our blood;
We paid our duty to the delicate art,
Of those who paint our huts and palaces
With frescoes of the endless lover’s tale.
More bright than in Egyptian temple-tombs
Starts out the life of twice a thousand years;
Of poets, whose mysterious melody,
Frailest and longest-lived of earthly things,
Still sings above the forward-blowing wind,
A living voice when pyramids are dust,—
We spoke in love; but then we first fell out;
She was all for the new; I loved the old—
Those green and moss-grown alleys of the past,
Where sinks the still light thro’ the silent glade,
And statues wait, half-blinded by the leaves,
Listening for footfalls that will never come.
We drink the sealed-up sunshine of the age;
Of travellers’ tales whose wild adventure stirs
The salt sea-faring spark within our blood;
We paid our duty to the delicate art,
Of those who paint our huts and palaces
With frescoes of the endless lover’s tale.
More bright than in Egyptian temple-tombs
Starts out the life of twice a thousand years;
Of poets, whose mysterious melody,
Frailest and longest-lived of earthly things,
Still sings above the forward-blowing wind,
A living voice when pyramids are dust,—
We spoke in love; but then we first fell out;
She was all for the new; I loved the old—
Those green and moss-grown alleys of the past,
Where sinks the still light thro’ the silent glade,
And statues wait, half-blinded by the leaves,
Listening for footfalls that will never come.
She would not hear great Milton’s organ roll,
Nor walk with Spencer by the lilied shore—
But we made peace beside the Laureate’s song,
And then we read his dream of beauties dead,
And as she smiled, I spoke of one to-day,—
Blonde Clytie, with the graceful statue-head,
The smile that wakes like sparkles on still seas;
The lute-string voice; but Esther there arose,
Saying she was weary of the waves’ dull song,
She must go home. Her eyes were dark and proud,
She would not even let me walk with her.
Now what has vexed her? For I cannot tell.
There is a foolish song I used to hear.
Nor walk with Spencer by the lilied shore—
But we made peace beside the Laureate’s song,
And then we read his dream of beauties dead,
And as she smiled, I spoke of one to-day,—
Blonde Clytie, with the graceful statue-head,
The smile that wakes like sparkles on still seas;
The lute-string voice; but Esther there arose,
Saying she was weary of the waves’ dull song,
She must go home. Her eyes were dark and proud,
She would not even let me walk with her.
Now what has vexed her? For I cannot tell.
There is a foolish song I used to hear.
‘Fair women are strange at the best,
And the best are the strangest, it seems;
You must wait till their mood passes by,
Good-night then, dear lady, sweet dreams!’
And the best are the strangest, it seems;
You must wait till their mood passes by,
Good-night then, dear lady, sweet dreams!’